


Rusted Gold

by bioticbootyshaker



Category: Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Antivan Crows, Grief, Journey, Loss, M/M, Rivain, post da:o
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-30
Updated: 2013-07-30
Packaged: 2017-12-21 21:35:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,921
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/905210
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bioticbootyshaker/pseuds/bioticbootyshaker
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After defeating the Archdemon and ending the Blight, Darrian and Zevran take to the road, journeying across the Waking Sea and north to the Free Marches. Zevran is used to the nomad lifestyle, but he senses a longing for home in his lover. He also notices that Darrian is punishing himself for what happened to his cousin, Shianni, and for all the people he wasn't strong enough to protect.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Rusted Gold

He wore a ring to remind him of his failure, and an earring to remind him of when he did something right. Neither of those things told Zevran all he needed to know about his lover -- he had never believed a person could be summed up so easily, that everything they were existed on the surface -- but they did remind him of why he loved Darrian and why he had been more than happy to travel with him after the Blight was ended. 

Vaughn’s ring, Darrian said. He told him about what had happened one night when sleep hadn’t come and they had been laying together in their tent. It had taken Darrian some time to get comfortable with Zevran sleeping there. The first few times he had laid beside Zevran, stiff and unyielding, before moving from the tent and sleeping out under the stars. Zevran hadn’t taken his absence personally; Darrian enjoyed the sex just fine, he simply was unaccustomed to another body sharing such close space with him. Unfamiliar with the heat of another person curled against him.

That night, Darrian had been comfortable. At least his body had been. His heart and mind were troubled. He’d turned the ring slowly around his finger, staring up blankly at nothing. Zevran pressed his palm flat against Darrian’s chest, feeling how hard and fast his heart beat, knocking against his rib-cage as though it meant to escape.

He told Zevran everything. About his wedding, his cousin Shianni, the humans that had come to their ceremony and dragged the women off like they were nothing more than cattle. He told Zevran how he and his cousin Soris had broken into the castle and rescued the women, and then his voice started to tremble, and his fingers stopped twisting the ring. He hadn’t been fast enough, he said. He was too late for Shianni. She was alive, but that was all. Alive and broken.

Zevran said nothing. There was nothing he could have said that would have lessened Darrian’s guilt, or comforted a heart that was too scarred to ever be comforted. Zevran only moved closer, pressing his face against Darrian’s throat and a kiss against his jaw. 

Failing someone you loved was something Zevran knew more than enough about. 

He couldn’t share in Darrian’s grief, but he could share in his guilt.

~*~

The road south led them close to Ostagar, where Cailan’s remains had been set to the pyre and the darkspawn had been routed. It was a place filled with horrible memories, alive with the restless ghosts of the dead, but Darrian wouldn’t turn back. They moved through the ruins with especial care, not wanting to disturb too much or draw any darkspawn stragglers on top of them. 

It was there, near where Duncan had kept his fire burning years before, that they met the small group of elves. Darrian approached them with less guardedness than Zevran, who kept his hand on the hilt of a dagger and his eyes flicking from one face to the next. They were young, that much was evident, and shabbily dressed, and not at all dangerous. Still, Zevran kept his hand readied over his hilt, and stood beside Darrian with every intention of slicing open the throat of the first person who reached for his lover. 

“A strange place to make camp,” Zevran said. “Word does take terribly long to travel these days, but I assume you’re aware there was a Blight, yes?”

One of the elves, a woman with a ruddy face and her hair pulled back in a tight bun, looked at Zevran with dim eyes. “Yes,” she said. “We’ve only... Yes, we know.”

Escaped slaves, then. Zevran sighed and let his hand drop from his weapon. 

Most likely they had been with their Master when the horde had fallen on top of them. Most likely bound for Gwaren or Amaranthine to sail for the Free Marches and journey into Tevinter. The slave trade was illegal, of course, any good upstanding dog-lord or Marcher would have told you, but Zevran knew that it was illegal only for those who did not possess the charm and the coin, and who did not know which palms to grease. 

“Your master is dead, _si_?” Zevran asked. “You are free to go where you like now. Unless you like remaining in this place. Personally it is far too grim for me, but whatever suits you.”

“Zevran,” Darrian said. He had a way of speaking, a way of getting his point across in one word, that Zevran had never known before. Zevran flushed and looked down at his boots. “Right, sorry,” he said. “We’ll be on our way, then.”

“Why are you staying here?” Darrian asked. He didn’t address his question to the ruddy faced elf girl, but to the woman sitting beside her. She seemed older than the rest, with an air of calm and strength the others lacked. She was a pretty woman, but a wicked scar cut across her right eye, and Zevran could tell she had been blinded.

“There is nowhere else for us,” the woman said. “After the darkspawn returned to the Deep Roads, we... Found our way here. Too many people in the north. Too many... ways for us to be returned to bondage.”

“Ah, yes,” Zevran said. “It is much better here. Cannibals and wildlings and ravenous beasts! So much easier to remain safe and sound.”

“He has a point,” Darrian said, though he gave Zevran a withered look before returning his eyes to the woman. “It’s not safe here. You shouldn’t---”

“Leave us be,” the woman said. “We are doing no harm here. Just leave us be.”

“I’m only trying to he---”

“Leave us be,” she repeated, firmly. Her arms wrapped around the two elves closest to her, and she pulled them nearer to her body. Darrian attempted to move closer, and the two men standing near her moved forward with their daggers drawn.

“We’ll leave,” Darrian said. “Just... please don’t stay here long. It isn’t safe.”

He gave the group a mournful look over his shoulder as Zevran led him away.

~*~

The next morning, they found the group near the road leading out of Ostagar and north towards Lothering. They were dead. Wolves or some other wild animals had descended on them as they’d pressed towards the road. Darrian wanted to look away, but he couldn’t. He stood over their bodies for some time with his hands fisted at his sides and his head turned down. Zevran tried to turn him away, to lead him towards the road, but Darrian refused.

More people he had failed.

Amazing, he’d saved the land from a Blight, and yet still he carried the weight of Shianni’s suffering, of all the people who had fallen while the darkspawn had ravaged the land. Even now, with the ‘spawn gone and the land attempting to heal from the damage that had been done to it, he carried the brunt of every loss heavy on his heart. Zevran linked his fingers with Darrian’s and gently tugged him away from the ruined bodies. 

Darrian sighed and let himself be led. 

~*~

That night was like the first night.

Darrian was desperate for him. Zevran could barely move with how tightly he clung to him. His body was trembling, like a live-wire, tense and burning and tight with energy and adrenaline and want. His ego was rather large, Zevran would never deny that, but he had no delusions that Darrian held him so tightly and moved against him so passionately because he was hungry with desire.

He needed comfort, that was all. He needed to be held and kissed and feel fingers move through his hair and dig in at his hips. He needed to be cradled and coddled and _fucked_. Zevran knew him well enough to know when he simply needed to shut up and give him what he needed. And so he did, out under the stars, with the grass damp and high around them. After, when they were laying together and struggling to catch their breath, Darrian pressed his face against his throat and cried. 

Zevran held him and said nothing.

~*~

Their path took them to Gwaren, and from there, they sailed across the Waking Sea to the Free Marches. Over the weeks, Darrian seemed to improve, though sometimes Zevran would find him staring blankly ahead, twiriling the ring absently around his finger. Some wounds were beyond healing, after all. Zevran knew that first-hand, and it hurt him to know that Darrian had been forced to learn it as well. Some wounds would never close, would never leave scars. They would remain open and weeping and festering forever. 

Still, Darrian’s spirits seemed lifted when they arrived in Kirkwall. He laughed with more ease, and raced through the shops in Hightown with the energy and exuberance of a child. Zevran bought him several pieces of clothing for their journey north, as well as a gold and ruby ring. He wished to replace the one Darrian had taken from the man who had harmed his cousin, but Darrian left it where it was and slid Zevran’s ring onto his pinky. It glittered in the sun when he turned his hand, but was muted when his fingers slid through Zevran’s hair and he kissed him.

“Thank you,” Darrian said.

“Ah, you’re welcome,” Zevran murmured. “You must know how much I love you, si? Here I am, spending coin to buy you trinkets I could have easily stolen.”

Darrian grinned. “Have I made an honest man out of you?”

“Maldicion, I hope not!”

He kissed Zevran again, slower and deeper, before resting their foreheads together. 

“I don’t know where I’d be without you,” Darrian whispered.

“Most likely somewhere grand and exciting,” Zevran said. “I’ve dragged many a pretty boy to their ruin, you know. Come, let’s go.”

~*~

North.

Tevinter loomed ahead of them, black and grand and sharp against the sky. They turned west on the Imperial Highway, making for Nevarra and the Anderfels. Darrian mentioned how uneventful their trip had been; no highwaymen to ‘liberate’ them from their purses, no raiders falling on them in the dead of night, not even a few Crows giving chase. Zevran reminded him that to speak of the Crows was to invite them, and Darrian laughed.

Later that night, a small group of the assassins ambushed them as they crossed into the Nevarran wilderness. They were dealt with, of course, swiftly and as quietly as possible, but Darrian took a dagger to the shoulder and it took them more than a week to turn back and seek an herbalist in Tevinter. 

By then his wound was infected, and they remained in the city for a few weeks while he healed. It proved to be an interesting diversion. Neither of them held any care for the city, but they entertained themselves as well as they could. Their coin had taken a severe hit with the unexpected detour, and Zevran was forced to find work around the city; odd jobs that offered little coin, but provided them with room and board, as well as their meals. 

When they left Tevinter, they did so with mutual relief. Neither of them could have said why the place seemed so oppressive and the air so heavy, but when they were gone from Tevinter’s shadow, they moved with more ease. 

They were aimless. That was how Zevran preferred to live, but he could tell Darrian longed for some stability. He wanted a place that he could call home, and Zevran had never denied him what he desired. Antiva was out of the question, of course. Zevran would never walk willingly into a pit of vipers. If they continued west, they would eventually reach Weisshaupt Fortress, which was no place for them to make any kind of home. Darrian, he guessed, would feel welcome enough in the old stone walls, but Zevran had never been a Grey Warden, and had no desire to become one. The land was too cold and harsh for a man who had been born in the desert heat. Zevran would never grow used to the cold, and he knew there was no home for them there.

Orlais, then. Zevran considered it seriously. It was large enough to evade the Crows, and it was a decent enough place from what Zevran had heard. Darrian disliked its friviolity, and though he never said so, Zevran believed he had enough patriotism in him to be offended by the idea of settling in Orlais. He was very Fereldan, after all. 

“If we go back ‘round, we could get to Rivain,” Zevran said. They were sitting together around the fire, both of them shivering and moving closer together to keep heat between them. “Quite a journey, but it’s warm, at least. The people are all dark and lovely, and the food is quite good, from what I hear.”

“Rivain,” Darrian said. He mused the word, tasted it, felt the shape of it in his mouth. After a few minutes, he smiled, and moved closer to Zevran. “That sounds perfect,” he murmured.

Any place would be perfect, really. The idea that he could set down roots and have a home anywhere in Thedas so long as Darrian was with him should have frightened him. Would have years earlier. Now, though, he was tired of being aimless. He was tired of having the journey mean more than the destination. 

He wanted home.

~*~

Darrian stood on the shore, looking out at the water. The sun was setting, turning the ocean and the sky red-orange. He twisted Vaughn’s ring around his finger, absently, paying no attention to the way it gleamed and glinted. It was a terrible thing, a burden, a reminder of how he had failed, of who he had failed. That it was a pretty burden mattered little. When he looked at the ring, he saw only a stain, a blemish, a dark taint that would never come clean. 

The breeze was warm and rifled through his hair, blowing it from his temples. He wanted to feel like he was home, like he was safe, but he couldn’t. Not with the ring heavy on his finger, not with the image of Weisshaupt Fortress looming in the distance still imprinted on his mind. It had been a reminder that he would one day hear the song, that he would one day hear the Calling and march himself into the Deep Roads for a glorious death. Another burden to carry, and Darrian wondered how he could even breathe under the weight of it all. 

Zevran’s hand was warm on the back of his neck. Darrian sighed, as though he had been waiting for him. Maybe he had been. 

They were silent for a long time. They watched the sun settle against the horizon and they both held their breath when it seemed to slip beneath the water. When it was dark, Darrian whispered: “Sometimes I feel like I’ll never be home.”

Zevran kissed his temple and rested his hand over Darrian’s, his thumb slipping over the ring that had caused him so much grief. 

“It’s time to let go, now,” Zevran whispered. 

His lips moved to Darrian’s ear, pressing softly against the lobe, over the earring he had given him what seemed a lifetime before. It was a reminder of the time he had done something right. The time where he had stood beside Zevran and boldly told all who would listen that he loved him, that he needed him, that he would stand beside him forever and fight. Darrian wasn’t sure if he had such bravery left in him, but he was sure that Zevran would help him. He would be there when the nights turned cold and the wind blew sharp and wicked through him. 

Darrian slipped the ring off. It was a struggle, considering how long he had worn it, but when he held it in the palm of his hand, it seemed a small thing. A trifling thing of little weight and little worth. He couldn’t imagine it had ever felt like the weight of the entire world, but he couldn’t imagine there had ever been a time where he had been young enough and foolish enough to believe he could save everyone. He never could; but he would always try.

That had to count for something.

“It isn’t your fault, _mi amor_ ,” Zevran murmured. His lips and breath tickled Darrian’s ear, and he shivered. It was good. It unwound through him warm and gentle, and he smiled. “Time to let go now.”

He felt tears on his face and he let them come. Maybe someday he would be able to think back on the boy he had once been and feel something other than shame. Maybe someday he could be proud of who he’d been and who he’d become. Maybe someday he would feel nothing but pity for the boy who had saved the world and tried desperately to save the ones he loved the most.

That night, he felt oddly quiet. Undisturbed, untethered. It was a good feeling. Strange, but good, and Darrian didn’t question it. 

His fingers closed around the ring tightly, sinking it into the meat of his palm. He closed his eyes and felt Zevran’s breath against his ear, felt the heat of his fingers against the nape of his neck.

Darrian tossed the ring into the ocean and let the tides carry it away.

**Author's Note:**

> Written for thechantryprince on tumblr. :)


End file.
